Prissy Prose Past Midnight (PST)

This is what happens when you listen to Bon Iver past midnight, a little inebriated from some soju sweetness:

Twenty thousand implosions within: a clench released into the dead of night. Her finger dangled over his arched back and traced a ginger line beneath the nether.  Both wondered.  It was done. Yes, no more.  No.


Let it linger.


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